


dive.

by doomcake



Series: Across the Universe [1]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, Gangsters, Italian Mafia, M/M, Male Slash, Pseudo-quantum physics, Semi-Explicit sexual content, Yaoi, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Takeshi eyes the glass with that same strange, nostalgic-haunted look. “It’s funny, you know. How some people always reach the same ends, no matter what paths they start out on.”</i><br/> </p>
<p>Gokudera Hayato, the tenth generation Vongola Storm Guardian, is dead. Desperate, Yamamoto travels across the universes to find him again. In another life, Gokudera abandons the mafia upon his father's violent death and instead lives the peaceful life of a concert pianist. ... Of course, this is all about to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dive.

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.  
>  \--  
> Hello! This fic is actually a few years old now, and I'm finally getting my lazy butt to posting it here so I can get myself motivated to write more in this series. Please bear with me, as I'm a slow poster (and an even slower writer)! Quick!beta by Kia (iluxia). All remaining errors are mine.  
> Part 0/? of "Across the Universe" series.
> 
> \- Although "dive" chronologically does NOT take place first in the series, it was the first part written/posted, and I've been told that this whole series reads best with this segment first. 
> 
>   **WARNING 1: RATED NC-17 for language and m/m sexual content**  
>  **WARNING 2: IMPLIED MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH**
> 
>  
> 
>   **RECOMMENDED LISTENING:**  
>  ♪ [stairway to heaven](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pPvNqOb6RA) { led zeppelin }

  
_Yes, there are two paths you can go by  
But in the long run  
There's still time to change  
The road you're on_  
(Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin)

**« dive. »**  


“You look like hell.”  
   
Hayato wrinkles his nose and snarls over his cup of black coffee, “Thanks for pointing out the obvious, jackass. It’s called _jetlag_.”  
   
“I’m just looking out for your best interests, Hayato,” Pietro replies with a placating sigh, leaning back in the plush hotel chair. “And don’t lie, because I _know_ you weren’t sleeping well even before we got here. That's not jetlag; that's _insomnia_.”  
   
“I’m on tour, if you didn’t notice,” Hayato growls back.  
   
“I’m your manager, Hayato; I’m not an idiot.” Pietro sighs again. “Besides, you need to speak to me with a little more respect—or at least gratitude. I’m the one keeping you gainfully employed.”  
   
Hayato waves a hand in front of him dismissively. “You get a pretty nice chunk of _my_ paycheck for your efforts, so don’t give me all that bullshit. It’s a two-way street.”  
   
“You still should watch your mouth around some of your patrons. You’re a concert pianist, Hayato; foul-mouthed punks like _you_ don’t listen to your music.”  
   
With a snort, Hayato sets down his empty mug on the low table by the couch. “I know damn well who I’m playing for, Pietro. I’m well-versed in snob-speak and couture behavior, so don’t worry about that. And I think I know a little more about Japan than you do—you can’t even speak _passable_ Japanese.”  
   
Pietro shoots a glare at him, but then shakes his head. “Whatever. Just behave yourself and don’t get us kicked out of any nice concert halls this tour.” He reaches into his coat pocket and slides a bottle of sleeping pills across the coffee table, the plastic bottle nearly colliding with the empty coffee cup. “But I mean it—get some rest. We’ll be able to sell more of your albums if you’re looking pretty.”  
   
Hayato flips him off as he gets up and leaves the hotel room, and then flips off the bottle of sleeping pills for good measure.

 

 

 

   


At night, Hayato Gokudera dreams of blood.  
   
Perhaps it’s because he was there when his father was brutally gunned down when he was only nine years old (just one year after he lost his mother), but typically his dreams have the smoking gun in his own hands (or sticks of dynamite, or a brass knuckle, or sometimes even wire from the instrument he’s so fond of playing now). He finds these dreams both exhilarating and terrifying, because there’s a part of him that _relishes_ the feel of an enemy’s blood under his fingernails, but there’s the other part of him that isn’t a murderer like his father.  
   
He knows his father was a member of the Mafia. Hayato is a particularly intelligent young man, with keen observation skills even as a young boy. It didn’t take much sleuthing to figure out what his father’s occupation was, or to understand why his mother had to die.  
   
It also didn’t take much to figure out that his father’s death was simply an occupational hazard.  
   
It had been at his father’s funeral that Hayato decided he didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps, and instead chose to continue his studies of piano. Bianchi told him his mother was a beautiful, extremely talented pianist; music is in his very veins, and enough life had already been lost in his family.  
   
But every time he wakes in a cold sweat from a dream bathed in rich red blood—heart pounding, adrenaline rushing—he wonders whether he might have chosen his paternal heritage had things been different. In the dream, he sees some of the same faces over and over again, and knows that they’re somehow special to him. He doesn’t remember them when he wakes, reaching for wounds that aren’t there, for a gun that doesn’t exist, for the faceless man that hovers over him in his dreams.  
   
When the adrenaline dies down and he reaches for the bottle of sleeping pills on the nightstand next to his hotel bed (he’s always on tour nowadays, it seems), the pills feel like stones going down his throat. And when he goes back to sleep, he always feels like he’s missing something important.

 

 

 

 

Music is like a drug running through Hayato’s veins. Each note takes him one step further down a path yet unexplored, through a land untouched by humankind, up the stairs to the Gate of Heaven itself. He closes his eyes and lets _sound_ pull and tug him through a world unexplored; the only grounding to reality is the feel of the Steinway’s polished spruce keys underneath his flying fingertips. The pressures of travel, of concert performances, of his persistent manager’s insistence to make more appearances in public—these all fade away under the calming waves of the fine, rich tones of the concert grand as it echoes through the practice room.  
   
Hayato treasures these rare moments of escape with all his heart; it’s a fleeting moment between the piano and its lover, the drifting between reality and this dream-world that Hayato sees only through his music. In the back of his mind, he knows that his manager is likely going to find him any moment now (all he has to do is follow the music—a path to wonderland for Hayato is a blaring beacon to Hayato for his manager). The thoughts are brushed aside gently by each passing note, however, and so he doesn’t notice when he’s no longer alone in the practice room.  
   
He catches the intruder during a short pause between notes. There’s a sharp intake of breath that doesn’t belong to him, and it rips him out of his trance so quickly he might as well have been slapped. Whirling on the stool, he whips around, expecting to see Pietro.  
   
Instead, all he sees is a tall Japanese man in a finely-tailored suit. … _Not_ his manager.  
   
Frowning, he opens his mouth to demand how this idiotic fan got through the music building’s security, but he’s cut off when the man takes several steps forward. His breath catches in his throat when he sees something like _recognition_ in the man’s eyes—not the kind of recognition that his fans have when they see him on the streets, but something _deeper_ and more meaningful. It sends chills up and down his spine, but he isn’t sure why it would.  
   
“D-Don’t stop. _Please_ ,” the man pleads in Japanese.  
   
“Who the hell are you?” Hayato blurts suddenly, not liking the feeling in his stomach as this strange man approaches. “And how the hell did you get in here?”  
   
The Japanese man blinks, and then suddenly starts laughing. _Laughing_! At this point, Hayato is convinced this has to be some kind of joke. He starts to get angry, but something in the way the man holds himself makes Hayato pause.  
   
“If you have something to say, I’d suggest you say it now before I call in security.”  
   
“I’ve been looking for you, you know,” the man says softly, laughter gone (but the smile isn’t). He takes a step forward, and Hayato takes a step back, knees brushing against the piano stool. “It’s funny, because I don’t think I ever considered you living like… like _this_.” He gestures to the piano. “I knew you played, but I thought you hated it, because of how Bianchi used to make you play with her poison cookies.”  
   
Hayato frowns; he’s pretty sure he has done a damn good job of disassociating himself with his estranged half-sister by changing his name. So how would this guy know about Bianchi? Unless…  
   
“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re one of those creepy stalkers, aren’t you?” Hayato groans and sits down. “I thought I _told_ my manager to make sure none of that shit got out—”  
   
Laughter cuts him off again, and he looks up angrily. Who the fuck is this jackass?  
   
“This shit isn’t funny.”  
   
“I’m not a stalker,” the man says, hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry; I probably should have realized sooner. Of course you don’t know me.” (It sounds almost sad, the way he says it.) He covers the distance between them in a few long strides, sticks out a hand with a smile so bright and so genuine that it’s almost blinding, and Hayato can’t help _but_ trust him. Something tells Hayato that this man is dangerous, but the only danger he sees is in how winning that ear-to-ear grin is. “I’m Takeshi Yamamoto. I—uh, I suppose you could say I work in security here in Tokyo.”  
   
Hayato stares at Takeshi’s outstretched hand as he hesitates, unsure if he’s willing to go down this road. But he figures it would be much ruder to ignore it entirely, so he takes it hesitantly, smiling (it feels like a grimace) and says, “Hayato Gokudera—but it seems like you knew that already.”  
   
The hand gripping his is firm and warm, though the palm and thumbs are calloused. Takeshi’s hand fits around his almost like a glove, and Hayato is almost hesitant to pull it away. There’s something almost familiar about this man, but Hayato doesn’t know what it is, and it’s starting to creep him out. With a shudder, he jerks his hand away and ignores the almost-hurt, confused expression that briefly tugs at that face-splitting grin.  
   
There is a moment of painfully awkward silence before Hayato clears his throat. “So… you didn’t say how you knew me, exactly.”  
   
“Oh! Haha, sorry about that,” Takeshi says and rubs a hand sheepishly behind his head. “It’s… uh. It’s kind of a long story. We may want to talk it out over coffee—” he glances down at his watch and adds sheepishly, “or dinner?”  
   
Hayato blinks and blurts (before he can stop himself, damn his tongue), “Wait, wait—are you asking me on a _date_?”  
   
“…If you’re not too busy? Haha.”  
   
Before Hayato can say something about his sexual orientation that he’ll regret ( _How the fuck do you even know I’m gay, you jackass_ ), his phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s Pietro, damn that man, and the reminder that he has a concert the next day makes him irritated. Something in his gut tells him that he should follow Takeshi, should hear him out even though this guy is a complete stranger and he should be practicing for the next day’s concert. So on a whim, he ignores the call from his manager and snorts.  
   
“Sure. Why the hell not.”  
   
The grin on Takeshi’s face widens—there’s a subtle hint of relief there. It does occur to Hayato that it’s frightening to see how easily he begins to pick up nuances of grins from this wildly-smiling stranger, but the thought gets shoved to the back of his mind to process later.

 

 

 

 

They don’t even make it to the restaurant before the shit hits the proverbial fan. The ear-splitting peppering of explosions and blinding bright lights are almost too much to take in. Things happen so fast that Hayato freezes— _freezes_ , like a deer caught in the headlights—until Takeshi grabs him by the back of his dress coat collar and drags him around the corner of the closest building. He’s breathing heavily, heart hammering painfully against his ribcage; it’s taking every ounce of willpower to keep from panicking. His back is pressed up against the wall, and Takeshi’s face is only inches from him now. Their eyes lock, and Takeshi’s are on fire with emotions that remind Hayato of clouds gathering before rain. Something bad is about to go down, and Takeshi somehow _knows_ it.  
   
“ _Stay here_ ,” he orders gruffly.  
   
Hayato can only swallow thickly, nod and obey as Takeshi opens his coat to reveal a long line of… boxes? He doesn’t get more than a glimpse than that before Takeshi slams a fist into a box and dashes around the corner, out of sight. The sounds of battle float around the corner, and Hayato can’t help but flinch every time he hears a cry of pain or sharp barks from guns.  
   
It’s both everything and nothing like his dreams—the violence is terrifying to listen to, but he isn’t active in it. After all, he’s only a concert pianist; what use could he possibly be? Except that there’s a part of him that longs to leap out around the corner and help win this fight (even if he doesn’t know what’s being fought over). The adrenaline keeps rushing through his veins, pounding in his ears and making it increasingly harder to breathe.  
   
There’s another loud explosion of light from around the corner, and suddenly Takeshi staggers back around, grabbing Hayato’s arm firmly.  
   
“We’re leaving,” he says, all earlier traces of that smile gone. “ _Now_.”  
   
Hayato trips over his own feet as he’s unceremoniously dragged away from the scene of the fight, and it takes him a moment to realize he should probably be pretty fucking pissed at this point. He grabs the hand that’s gripping onto his jacket sleeve and pulls Takeshi to a halt, spinning him back around to face him with a snarl and a string of angry words on his tongue.  
   
“Wait, wait, _wait a goddamn fucking minute_!” Takeshi blinks at him in surprise, but he’s so pissed off at this point that he doesn’t care. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “What the hell is going on? You show up at my practice room, act like you know me, drag me out to who-the-hell knows where, get into a big nasty brawl and just expect me to walk away with you like it’s nothing we haven’t seen before—and I don’t even know who the fuck you are!”  
   
Takeshi’s smile lacks any sort of humor or joy, but the tone in his voice is pleading as he says, “I know, but _please_. Just… just trust me for now. I swear I’ll explain everything to you. We just can’t… we can’t talk about it here.”  
   
There’s that issue of _trust_ here, and again Hayato instinctively feels the need to just shut up and follow him. The rational part of his mind tells him that this is stupid, this is dangerous, and he needs to call Pietro back _right now_ and get back on track.  
   
All thoughts are cut off when he realizes the skin of the hand he’s gripping is increasingly growing slick and wet.  
   
“Y-You’re bleeding!” he says, and then grits his teeth. _Good job, Captain Obvious._  
   
Takeshi chuckles dryly. “It’s okay—it isn’t that bad. Just needs a quick patch-up and I’ll be fine.”  
   
Something about the sight of the thin rivulets of blood seeping from under Takeshi’s sleeve forces a decision in Hayato’s mind.  
   
“Come with me, you idiot,” he growls, dragging a wide-eyed Takeshi along behind him.

 

 

   


“Uh, you might want to make that a little tighter, haha,” Takeshi says. He twists awkwardly, trying to see the back of the gauze wrapped haphazardly around his bicep. Hayato glares at him, and he sheepishly laughs again. “Sorry! It’s just that I can’t fix it one-handed.”  
   
Hayato scowls as he tries to concentrate on unwrapping Takeshi’s bullet crease without making it worse. It’s true that it isn’t a serious wound, but that doesn’t make it any less gruesome in Hayato’s eyes. He hasn’t had much exposure to this kind of shit. Hell, this is what he’s been avoiding all those years, ever since he gave up after being rejected from the first mafia family he tried to join. It doesn’t really _bother_ him that much, but he just isn’t experienced in dealing with fixing it.  
   
“You should probably go to the hospital and have it stitched,” he points out reasonably. “Otherwise it’s going to scar.”  
   
That last part sounds stupid the moment Hayato says it, because he sees pretty damn well that Takeshi—sitting shirtless on his hotel bed—is covered in a myriad of scars. It doesn’t escape his attention that this Takeshi guy is likely a member of the mafia (not enough tattoos to be yakuza), and obviously is involved in some pretty deep shit.  
   
“It’ll be fine,” Takeshi says again, smiling. “I really don’t mind.”  
   
Hayato uses more care this time when he wraps the injury a second time, making sure that the gauze hugs the wound’s edges together but doesn’t cut off the blood flow to Takeshi’s shoulder. When he tapes the loose end down, Takeshi gives it an appraising look, nodding appreciatively.  
   
“See, you’re not so bad at it after all! Haha.”  
   
Hayato feels his ears redden at the small praise, but then he sees something akin to nostalgia in Takeshi’s smile. (Smile-reading again—this, Hayato decides, is getting really creepy.) Gritting his teeth, he gets up, grabs a bottle of whiskey from the hotel stash—never mind that it’s ten times overpriced—and cracks it open, pouring two fingers’ worth into the hotel water glasses. He drops a couple ice cubes in his, and drops the other one in front of Takeshi.  
   
“Now talk,” he demands, as if the whiskey is something of a bargaining chip.  
   
Takeshi eyes the glass with that same strange, nostalgic-haunted look. “It’s funny, you know. How some people always reach the same ends, no matter what paths they start out on.”  
   
Taking a swallow, Hayato grimaces as the whiskey burns his throat on the way down, then frowns. “What the fuck kind of philosophical bullshit is that? You’re avoiding the topic.”  
   
“If only I were.” Takeshi takes a swig of whiskey out of his own glass, coughing slightly after he finishes swallowing. “Haha, I can’t believe you still like this crap.”  
   
Hayato raises an eyebrow expectantly; _now_ he’s getting somewhere. He waits for Takeshi to continue.  
   
“Did you ever go on to college and get your physics degree?” Takeshi asks suddenly.  
   
Hayato starts, eyes widening in shock. “That degree is in my birth name! How the hell do you know that—you know what? Never mind. I should stop being surprised when you spout random shit like that.” He waves a hand dismissively before pressing it to his forehead. “Yes. Yes, I did. Now get to the fucking point, like how you know so much about me.”  
   
“Did you ever study the theory of multiverses?”  
   
Yes. Yes, he has, and it’s a crackpot theory that Hayato is convinced was conceived by some idiot astronomers sitting around tripping on acid or something.  
   
The question is strange and seems out of place, but as Hayato thinks about it, the pieces suddenly start clicking into place. Why he feels like he can trust Takeshi; why Takeshi knows so much about him; why he sometimes feels like something’s just not quite right in his little world—all of these are starting to make sense. If Takeshi is implying what he _thinks_ Takeshi’s implying, then…  
   
“This is so fucking crazy, it’s not even funny,” he growls. “Are you high?”  
   
Takeshi chuckles, but then sobers suddenly and looks so _sad_ even with a smile that it hurts like a punch to Hayato’s gut. “It might not be as crazy as you think.”  
   
“Damn straight it is as crazy as I think it is!” He tosses back the rest of the whiskey, standing up. “Now I remember why they tell you it’s stupid to take in strangers—never know when you’re going to come across a fucking nutcase.”  
   
But the thought of Takeshi as a _stranger_ isn’t sticking this time. He looks back at Takeshi, and something about the way he sits on the bed, the bandage wrapped around his arm, the way Takeshi’s looking back at him; all these are puzzle pieces, and as they settle into their places with startling clarity, Hayato freezes. The faceless man in his dream—that man suddenly has a face, and all those dreams from before are finally starting to make a little more sense.  
   
He pales.  
   
“You’ve met another version of me, haven’t you,” he says accusingly, but he already knows the answer. “Jesus, if what you’re saying is true, then—oh my god, this is too fucking weird.”  
   
Takeshi’s still smiling, and he simply shrugs. “Stranger things have happened.”  
   
Hayato pointedly ignores him, turning to pace around the room. “If you’re from a parallel universe… why the hell are you _here_? Isn’t there some other version of you running around Tokyo? Jesus, you could cause the universe to _implode_ if you ran into him—never mind. _Fuck_. What do you want with me, if you have another version of me to harass in another universe—”  
   
A hand lands on his shoulder, and Hayato whirls to see Takeshi staring intently down at him. The look is so intense that it causes the breath to catch in Hayato’s throat.  
   
“I’m here because…” he hesitates, biting his lip and looking away. “I’m here because this is the first parallel universe I’ve come across in which you haven’t yet died.”  
   
Those words aren’t unexpected. Hayato has had too many “dreams” of late in which he dies, and with this new information, it’s entirely plausible that he has been channeling other versions of him from other universes. But the cynical skeptic in him wants to deny it all, to snap at Takeshi and call him a goddamn liar, to shove the idiot out the door and never hear from him again.  
   
It isn’t a matter of belief, at this point. This is reality, regardless of whether Hayato wants to accept it—which he does, since he doesn’t have a choice. But he still has so many questions.  
   
“Wait. How are you even able to cross these parallel universes?” Hayato asks suspiciously.  
   
The grin is back. “In the original universe I come from, we are part of the Vongola mafia famiglia.”  
   
The name immediately sparks recognition in Hayato’s mind. His father was a Mafioso, after all, and Hayato recalls the Vongola name coming up on many occasions—often associated with strength and influence. How did he miss out on that in this universe?  
   
Takeshi sits back down on the edge of the bed and keeps talking. “You worked with our chief engineer and an allied family leader to come up with a technology that could help us gain the edge over our most dangerous enemy, because he can see across all parallel universes.” He sounds proud of this other world’s Hayato Gokudera. “But helping create that technology made you a target, and our enemy—Byakuran—ambushed you and almost gunned you down. He never stopped trying to kill you.” Takeshi takes a shaking breath, looking down at his hands as he pauses for a brief moment. “After you died, I…” Takeshi shakes his head, then amends, “We needed you, because the technology isn’t perfected yet. It works better than we could have imagined, but there are some security problems with the mainframe.”  
   
The gears in Hayato’s head are turning furiously at this point. “So you think Byakuran can monitor it?”  
   
“I’m pretty sure that’s why he usually seems to be one step ahead of me in trying to find you in other universes.” Takeshi takes a deep breath. “I’m not sure how much ahead of him I am here, but I’m… concerned.”  
   
“That’s why you were so surprised to see me alive,” Hayato muses. Then he realizes: “That attack from earlier—you think he might’ve had something to do with it?”  
   
Takeshi looks worried as he nods hesitantly. “I… I’m afraid he might.” He opens his mouth to say more, but changes his mind and says nothing instead.  
   
“I must’ve been one hell of a person if this big bad Byakuran guy doesn’t want me alive,” Hayato says loftily, smirking. “So was I some kind of boy genius, or what?”  
   
“You were the Vongola Tenth’s right hand man,” Takeshi replies without missing a beat. “You were an invaluable asset to our family’s core leadership, and you were one _hell_ of a fighter.”  
   
Hayato watches him as he tries to process everything, to absorb and wrap his mind around the situation at hand. Frustrated, he scratches at his head before he finally reaches for the pack of cigarettes and lighter in his pocket. Without even thinking, he shakes one out of the box, rolls it between his fingers, lights it, and takes a drag. Exhaling a satisfying stream of smoke, he frowns as he realizes something.  
   
“You’re trying to bring me back to your original universe, aren’t you?” The way Takeshi avoids his gaze is answer enough for him, and he snorts. “If I was such a valuable fighter in that world, why would I be of any help to you? I’m a musician; I don’t know the first thing about killing anyone.”  
   
Something in the way Takeshi stares at him sends shivers down his spine. “Byakuran wouldn’t be trying to eliminate you here as well if he didn’t think you posed some kind of threat.”  
   
_Good point_ , but it doesn’t explain the look in Takeshi’s eyes. He puts the cigarette back between his lips nervously. It’s a look Hayato has seen before, but only when he’s meeting with someone who… _Oh_.  
   
“That’s not the only reason, is it?” He doesn’t really pose it as a question, but he leaves enough space to let Takeshi say something on his own without being accusatory. Hayato might make a habit of being a bastard in these kinds of situations, but he doesn’t have the heart to be that way to Takeshi—especially not after he’s heard so much, and is so very much entwined in Takeshi’s destiny.  
   
Takeshi’s trying to maintain his smile, but his eyes are glassed over and he looks almost miserable. “Is it… is it selfish of me to just want to see you again?” he asks shakily, chuckling derisively at himself.  
   
Hayato doesn’t really know how to respond to that without sounding like an insensitive moron. “I’m not the same person, Takeshi.”  
   
“I know. But you’re also not all that different, even if you don’t want to acknowledge it.”  
   
Taking a defiant, long drag of smoke, he snorts it out from his nostrils in irritation. “Let me guess, the other me that you knew was also a chain-smoking, whiskey-guzzling, bad-mouthed, piano-playing asshole. Am I close?”  
   
Takeshi’s grin turns feral. “You have _no_ idea.”

  
 

 

 

   


They’re on the run again.  
   
Takeshi seems almost angry with himself for not thinking about the fact that Byakuran could just trace “Hayato Gokudera” to the hotel room, and keeps apologizing profusely to Hayato. There was a small scuffle at the hotel, but Takeshi is clearly very good at what he does, so they manage to escape with minimal injuries. The wound on Takeshi’s arm is bleeding again, and Hayato is pretty sure he bruised a few ribs, but they’re otherwise okay for the time being. Except Takeshi keeps _apologizing_ and it’s really grating on Hayato’s frazzled nerves.  
   
Hayato finally tells him that if he apologizes _one more fucking time_ , he’s going to punch his teeth out. Even if he’s a failure with a gun, Hayato has a mean right hook. Apparently, Hayato from the other universe had a mean right hook, too—Takeshi shuts up.  
   
They’re dodging through the crowded subway under Tokyo, and since Hayato barely knows the city, he lets Takeshi lead the way. He doesn’t even know where they’re going at this point and can only hope that Takeshi has a plan forming in his mind. All Hayato can think to do is get away, but he still doesn’t really understand who Byakuran is, or why the guy is such a huge threat. He only knows that Byakuran wants him dead, and that’s good enough reason for Hayato to trust Takeshi’s judgment.  
   
A few train hops and a bus station interchange, and they’re out in the countryside north of Tokyo proper. Hayato has never seen Japan outside of metropolitan Tokyo, so his eyes are glued to the window as he watches unfamiliar greenery pass him by. They ride in silence for a while, and Takeshi is always looking around and fidgeting (but smiles every time he sees Hayato looking at him).  
   
“Where are we headed?” Hayato finally asks.  
   
“Somewhere safe,” Takeshi says. “It’ll take a few days to get to where we need to be, but in the meantime there are a few places we can rest along the way.”  
   
Hayato can’t deny that he’s already tired, and he briefly considers e-mailing Pietro to let him know the situation. The thought is dismissed when he realizes that he isn’t going to ever see Pietro again anyway (oh god, he hopes not), so maybe he’ll save the message for when he’s actually leaving this universe.  
   
… Barring the small hint of doubt Hayato still harbors that Takeshi is crazy, that is.  
   
“Good,” he replies, leaning his forehead against the window and closing his eyes.

  
 

 

 

   


They’re holed up in a well-kept youth hostel, the smaller two-bed room paid for in cash so Byakuran won’t be able to find them so easily this time. Neither man has slept in a bed in days; at the rate they’re going tonight, though, it’ll be another few days yet before that happens.  
   
His fingers grip the nape of Takeshi’s neck desperately as he deepens the kiss, groaning into Takeshi’s warm mouth when teeth press down on his lower lip. He tastes of alcohol, but Hayato doesn’t care because he knows he reeks of the stuff, too—and likely cigarettes as well. Takeshi’s hands are wrapped around his hips, fingertips hooked into belt loops and pulling him in so close that Hayato can feel _everything_. His heart is throbbing in his chest, but he’s enjoying this way too much to even think about trying to stop the inevitable.  
   
Hayato is _definitely_ blaming this on the alcohol later. Especially if the clothes come off, which he has a feeling they’re going to. _Soon_.  
   
_Fuck it_ —they’re both exhausted, coming down from an adrenaline high that hasn’t subsided in far too long, both slightly drunk (but the hostel staff doesn’t have to know that) and it’s kind of funny how this started as an argument. Hayato doesn’t even remember what the argument was about, but he doesn’t really care now. It’s been far too long since he’s felt this good, and he can tell that Takeshi _needs_ this just as much as he does, even if Takeshi’s reasons are completely different.  
   
Maybe the other version of himself is more like him than he wants to admit. Hayato gasps when Takeshi bites down just below his ear—if Hayato didn’t know better, he would find it terribly creepy just how well Takeshi knows the most sensitive parts of his body, and just when and how to tease him.  
   
“Do you want me to fuck you, Hayato?” Takeshi breathes lustily into Hayato’s ear, one hand reaching down past the barrier of jeans and boxers to brush teasingly at Hayato’s groin.  
   
“G-Goddamn it, you cheater,” Hayato hisses. “That’s not fair— _ah_!”  
   
The feral grin is back, and it makes Hayato harder just having it directed at him point-blank. He shudders, but Takeshi’s mouth is already moving over his skin just the right way so he can’t even summon up the brainpower to protest.  
   
There’s something thrilling about the prospect of Takeshi—a stranger, and yet _not_ a stranger—fucking him through the mattress, where someone could very well hear them through the walls. He rolls his hips against Takeshi’s hand, and god does it feel good to have that skin-on-skin contact. His hands grasp at the hem of Takeshi’s shirt, running his hands up against the flat, chiseled plane of muscled chest underneath the cloth. His fingers trace scars, his mind distantly wondering what the story is behind each one of the thick braids of raised tissue, but those thoughts are quickly dismissed when Takeshi’s hand wraps around his cock and coats his mind in a haze of pleasure.  
   
“You never answered my question,” Takeshi purrs in his ear. Hayato doesn’t have a chance to reply before those lips are back against his throat, teasingly sucking and nipping at sensitive points Hayato didn’t even know he _had_.  
   
“Mnn!” Hayato groans again, and sucks in a harsh breath as he snarls, “You’re such a bastard, Takeshi. Stop fucking around and just—”  
   
Takeshi definitely knows what he’s doing as he strokes Hayato with just the right amount of pressure, then pauses and grins. “Just what?”  
   
The part of Hayato’s mind that isn’t writhing in pleasure is starting to get frustrated at this point. He’s had some pretty damn good sex in the past, but the way Takeshi’s handling him is nothing like he’s ever experienced before. Never before had anyone else made him _beg_ for this, and screw his pride—he’s probably going to succumb. Part of him wonders if the other version of him was always made to beg like this, because the bulge in Takeshi’s pants is definitely a good sign that he’s enjoying this far too much.  
   
“Just f-fucking _do_ it already!” Hayato finally says; words tight and rushed as he tries to breathe around each sharp intake of breath.  
   
Takeshi seems to know that this is likely as much of a plea he’ll get out of Hayato at the moment, and Hayato quickly finds himself flat on his back on the mattress. The warm hand around his dick is gone long enough to fumble with the button and fly on his pants (taking _too long, goddamn him_ ), and his hips are arching upwards to help with the movement.  
   
A sudden flash of pain whites out his vision, startling him back to reality and bringing with it a sudden wave of agony coursing through his side. It takes a second to separate the pain from the pleasure, and it’s then that Hayato realizes that his bruised ribs might be a little more serious than he’d let on. The content part of his brain is protesting the acknowledgement of the injury, but the pain is so intense that Hayato can’t seem to help but listen to his body’s sudden cry for help.  
   
“F-Fuck, _ah_ , s-stop! Stop!” he says suddenly, pushing Takeshi’s hands away abruptly and curling around his side in pain. He can’t stifle the moan as the movement makes it hurt even _more_. “ _Shiiiit_.”  
   
Takeshi’s hands are gone from his pants, and instead are on his shoulders, trying to turn him onto his back. It hurts too much to resist, so he just lets Takeshi manhandle him and undo the buttons on his shirt. Hayato just tries to focus on breathing so that it doesn’t hurt so damn much. Through the haze of pain, he hears Takeshi hissing angrily.  
   
“Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?” he says, voice thick. “I wouldn’t have— _damn_ it, I’m so sorry. I should have known this was a bad idea. Sorry.”  
   
Hayato grunts as the pain begins to subside, looking down at his side to see a large purple-and-black bruise mottling the left side of his ribcage. “F-Fuck, I didn’t know it was _that_ bad,” he groans defensively. “Jesus, that hurts.”  
   
“I’m so damn sorry.” He looks so _hurt_ and upset and miserable, and it’s making Hayato feel uncomfortable. It isn’t Takeshi’s fault he got kicked a few times in the ribs. Hell, it was better than the alternative at the time.  
   
Hayato scowls and replies, “You say you’re sorry _one more fucking time_ , I swear to God Almighty I’m going to—”  
   
“Punch my teeth out. Yeah, so you’ve said.” There’s a half-grin there now, and Hayato feels a small sense of victory from it. “Hold still; I’m going to check to see if you’ve cracked a rib or two. From what I’ve experienced, it’s… probably going to hurt, haha.”  
   
Hayato stays still and lets Takeshi poke and prod at his aching side— _jesus fuck that hurts_ —and after a few moments of gritting his teeth until he thinks he’s going to break a molar, Takeshi determines that he might have cracked at least one rib.  
   
“I’m going to brace it with some tape from the first aid kit,” Takeshi explains. “I’ll be right back.”  
   
Hayato doesn’t miss the fact that Takeshi’s hunched over as he hobbles to the bathroom, and feels a small pang of guilt when he remembers that the first aid kit isn’t in the bathroom. Part of him wants to offer to help, but he knows Takeshi would fuss and fret too much. With a wince and a sigh, Hayato stares up at the ceiling and lets his mind wander.  
   
He can’t help but acknowledge the fact that he really could see _this_ —this relationship, or whatever it is that Takeshi’s both pining after and holding himself back from—working. In another life, with another set of circumstances, perhaps it would have already been in place. But as it stands, the baggage Takeshi carries is too heavy, with memories too fresh and raw, and it’s a can of worms that Hayato isn’t sure he’s prepared to open.  
   
But that’s just bad timing, right?  
   
There’s a part of him that hopes this could possibly all work out. Somehow. Because the more he learns about Takeshi Yamamoto, the more he’s entranced, drawn in by the mysterious mafia hitman from a parallel universe. He wants to know more, to find out everything he can about this man. He isn’t the same Hayato Gokudera as the man this Takeshi once knew and loved, but that doesn’t mean they can’t make this work.  
   
… Somehow, that idea doesn’t sound as crazy as it used to.

  
 

 

 

 

“Wake up, Hayato.” There’s a hand on his shoulder that’s shaking him, and he groggily starts. “We’re at our stop.”  
   
“Mmff—what?” Hayato unsuccessfully tries to blink the grit from his eyes and yawns, and then he closes his eyes again.  
   
There’s a soft chuckle before Takeshi’s hands are around his wrists, pulling him to his feet. “Come on, sleepyhead. The bus is going to take us back in the wrong direction if we stay here too much longer.”  
   
Groaning, Hayato pulls his wrists away from Takeshi’s grip once he’s on his feet, stretching and wincing as his healing bruises remind him of their presence. Yawning again, he squints out the window into the bright scenery around them. “Where are we, anyway?”  
   
“Just outside Saga.”  
   
Hayato blinks, frowning. “We’re all the way over by Nagasaki?”  
   
With a snort, Takeshi looks outside. “We were hoping that it would be far enough out of Byakuran’s sight to keep him from noticing.”  
   
Hoisting his small bag over his shoulder, Hayato follows Takeshi off the bus. “We weren’t taking a direct route here, were we?”  
   
“Haha, you’re still as observant as ever,” Takeshi replies with a smile. “Are you up for a walk?”  
   
Hayato looks around them—it looks like they’re on the outskirts of a larger town, and nods. It’s not like he really has a choice in the matter.  
   
“Good, because we’ve got a ways to go yet.”  
   
It is a long walk, first through parts of the outer skirts of the city, and then into who-the-hell-knows where. All Hayato knows is that his feet are aching, he’s exhausted, but he trudges on because he trusts Takeshi. He can’t help but trust Takeshi—he’s all Hayato has now. His mobile’s battery died days ago, and he’s sure Pietro has either given up on him, or has sent hordes of police after him (he’s banking on the latter). So not only do they have Byakuran hunting them down, they have the police following them as well. With Takeshi’s background in the mafia, the police are going to be a problem. Hayato feels strangely protective in that situation and wants nothing more than to be rid of this place.  
   
He has already gone over in his mind a thousand reasons to stay, to abandon Takeshi and drop this crazy plan and just go back to the way things were. Back to how they were before Takeshi, before Byakuran, before he couldn’t fucking figure out the difference between dreams and alternative fates, before his world turned on its head and became a thousand times more confusing. But every time he dredges up that line of thinking, he can think of at least a thousand and one more reasons to go.  
   
And most of those reasons involve Takeshi.  
   
Since the other night, Takeshi almost seems to be purposely putting more distance between them, and Hayato can’t decide if he’s grateful (goddamn, is he ever tired) or pissed off ( _what, am I not good enough for you?_ ). Maybe he’s a little of both, and a lot confused and frustrated. It’s like he thinks he can control everything about himself and who he is, but on the other hand, his destiny seems to have spiraled out of his hands.  
   
“We’re almost there,” Takeshi’s voice calls from ahead and breaks Hayato out of his thoughts. “It’s just up ahead—you’ll be able to see it in just a few minutes.”  
   
“Good,” Hayato snaps back. “My feet are killing me.”  
   
“Haha, sorry about that—” At Hayato’s glare, Takeshi cuts himself off. “Oh! Sorry—I mean… _damn it_ , hahaha. I guess you’re going to have to punch me after all!”  
   
“You dumbass.”  
   
As promised, a couple more minutes of walking brings them in view of a strange-looking building up ahead. At least, Hayato _thinks_ it’s a building, but as they draw closer he sees that it’s really some kind of machine. And it’s _huge_ —a large half-dome covering a set of laser-looking things ( _straight out of a science fiction movie_ ) all aimed at a set of salvaged airline seats.  
   
And the Hayato Gokudera of this Takeshi’s universe helped build it.  
   
“Sweet Fucking Mother of God,” Hayato murmurs as they walk closer to the machine. “Is _this_ what you’ve been traveling in so far?”  
   
“Haha, yeah—”  
   
“And how the hell hasn’t anyone else found this yet?” Hayato peers up at the machine once they’re close enough to it, looking up underneath the hood like he’s inspecting a friend’s brand new muscle car. “You could probably see this thing from a satellite!”  
   
“Haha, well yeah, but it won’t be. It’s covered with a special kind of barrier,” Takeshi explains. “It’s something the other Hayato invented, since he was able to use so many different kinds of elements.”  
   
Hayato frowns (though it doesn’t escape his notice that Takeshi acknowledges the other Hayato as a separate entity). “Elements? Barriers? What the hell kind of scientist was he?”  
   
For a moment, Takeshi blinks stupidly before he starts laughing. “I suppose you wouldn’t know about any of that yet, huh.” He smiles nostalgically. “This should be an interesting role reversal, since the other Hayato taught me about box weapons and elements in the first place. Haha, it’s funny how that works.”  
   
“You’re still speaking gibberish,” Hayato mutters, but he’s still fascinated by the half-dome creation sitting in plain sight before him.  
   
Takeshi still is grinning with that look of content recollection on his face every time he thinks about the other Hayato. But at the same time, this Hayato knows it’s an expression that is for _him_ , since Takeshi only wears it when looking at _him_ , and not when he's thinking about the other Hayato.  
   
“Well, aren’t you going to tell me what this hunk of metal does?” Hayato asks, raising an eyebrow expectantly.  
   
Takeshi opens his mouth to say something, but the sound of a distant explosion sends a flock of birds fluttering above the grove they’re standing in. Eyes widening in alarm, Takeshi grabs Hayato by the arm protectively and says, “I’ll explain later.”  
   
Without another word, he pulls Hayato into the front two seats of the machine. There’s a control panel in front of the seat Takeshi occupies, and he starts hitting buttons on it in a fury. Another explosion—closer this time—causes Hayato to start, and Takeshi is muttering something under his breath as he quickly pulls a lever. The machine purrs to life around them, all blue lights and flashing sparks as the sound of energy gathering above them makes Hayato’s ears ring.  
   
“What the hell are we doing?” Hayato demands, grabbing Takeshi’s wrist.  
   
“Getting us— _you_ —the hell out of here,” Takeshi says. “I’m not going to let him have you again.”  
   
_Byakuran_. The name sends a stab of cold fear through Hayato’s gut, but he refuses to let it show.  
   
“Don’t I have a choice in the matter?” he says stubbornly. “This is _my life_ I’m talking about here! What if I’m not comfortable being zapped by this weird machine thing—which, for all I know, is about to electrocute the hell out of me.”  
   
Takeshi’s head whips around to stare him in the face, and there’s an expression there that Hayato _hasn’t_ seen before. It’s fucking terrifying; Hayato immediately regrets his words and swallows thickly.  
   
“I can’t make you come with me,” Takeshi concedes, “but I’ll be damned if I stand by and watch Byakuran tear you apart again. If you come with me, I _promise_ I’ll do my best to protect you—but you’re just going to have to _trust me_.”  
   
Hayato knows he’s making an ass of himself. Another explosion nearby pulls Takeshi’s gaze away from him for a split second, and then Takeshi looks at him again intently.  
   
“Your choice.” He’s almost pleading, but the choice is still left up to Hayato.  
   
Hayato takes a deep breath and whispers, “I’m sorry. Let’s go.”  
   
Takeshi breathes a sigh of relief before he pulls a lever near his chair with a vicious jerk. Hayato closes his eyes as the world lights up around him, and takes that leap of faith—and grabs Takeshi’s hand. He zeros in on Takeshi’s smile (the one that’s just for _him_ ) as the energy bursts around them, enveloping them, and with it comes a peace that Hayato hasn’t felt in a long time. He smiles back.  
   
_Dive._  
  
  
**_to be preceded... and continued._**


End file.
